I write with erasers
I traveled the world
and all the statues in athens
blushed with their voices
when they whispered
they don't read poetry
September 14, 2013
habituallyand thank goodness we wear pathshabitually by InkatMidnight
to our chosen art forms
while we're still young-
reaching adulthood means
carving ruts for ourselves
under the rickety wagon spokes
and packing them flat,
soiling the soles
of our wonder-washed feet.
scholarto an education that inspires mescholar by InkatMidnight
to write in the dark-
you terrify me.
you teach wisdom-
i have none. i spurn companionship
for flattery, a misfit dragon hoarding
fool's gold and plastic compliments,
craving synthetic sweet talk.
you preach justice,
and i wallow in justification
of my excuses, sacrificing truth
to craft perfection by veiling my weakness
in a false, flickering image of meekness,
poverty, and submission.
i have forgotten how to rail.
if there were a gavel to silence the clamoring
of my self-acquittals,
i would be far too weak to sound it.
i am too tremulous,
too soft and unassuming to stand.
you demand a straight back and
a humble heart- here i am,
proudly examining the dents in my armor
and nursing the ragged smoking holes in my ego,
the flowing garment in which my god
has cloaked my soul- i bore holes
in my belt of righteousness
trying to constrict my potential
more tightly. maybe i'll fit.
maybe someday a smartly clothed man
will slip me nicely under his arm.
i will b
imageregurgitating the pastimage by InkatMidnight
avoiding the piano
and the refrigerator
one denial after another,
negative, negated, nestled in
love love angst desire:
i live an insufficiently
a fool ripe for the picking,
the quiver in your fingertips
as you kill an inspiration:
you almost spoke the truth,
but we don't take up the pen
anymore. we take up drinking
and staring at ourselves in the mirror,
at alternate selves in sweatpants
and sultry profiles.
suck in your stomach,
strike out your words.
you sink in small talk,
same as yesterday.
the truth you avoid is nothing
but the pillar that keeps
your cowardly paralyzed spine
upright; but don't worry, like you
it needs no sustenance,
praise or recognition.
|As I dig for the wild orchids|
in the autumn fields,
it is the deeply bedded root
that I desire,
not the flower.
on martyrdomwhat did you think would happen?on martyrdom by UnspecifiedUnknown
when december mourned chemical snow
in the eye of a telescope, the rounded bill-
when cheap thrills triumph white-knuckle sobriety
(seaworthiness, peaks and bellies):
this is the ache of living, the hurt of becoming.
this is massacring the stations of breath
in your chest, seasons in retrograde at full bloom.
this is static relief, conquered by backing winds
and cold front at ease.
and do you really think
if gods had mercy, they’d be gods at all?
when being a self-same savior means expunging the fever
fitful, debating winds to knock out your electric wires
and raise the pressure, to save yourself?
they say, here at sea we open sleep,
bear witness to a casketed sky unburied, undone.
before that, they warn that having your life taken
isn’t the same as being killed,
and like a shipwreck, we die seeking to sail ourselves.
007It's necessary to stare in a mirror.007 by WilliamDallwitz
And hopefully the image itself leaves a whole new world on one's feet, like the sombre fish gasping for air as it finds itself in a strange existence, in a field it had only seen evermore distorted and fragmented, a field it could only envision from beneath the soulless currents of the grand ocean.
I have been asked who I am.
I don't know.
I have learnt not to stare at a mirror but in it.
I see no coherent image, nonetheless.
No concise identity.
I am... something.
And it is only with the freehanded help of extraordinary people, extraordinary authors of equally ingenious and inventive and absorvative reals, great friends and a great teacher, that I have finally set out to slowly clean the crystal.
It is said to wash oneself thrice right after rousing. Keeps the eyes fresh.
(Three poles have so long been with us...
the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit,
the Super-Ego, the Ego and the Id,
the Symbolic, the Imaginary and the Real,
half truths, half lies, half wishesi.half truths, half lies, half wishes by toxic--sunrise
it's like rain in the middle of an ice storm, you can't explain it and you don't know why but that doesn't stop it from happening and freezing your porch- but you don't find out about that part until the next morning when you hurry out because you're already five minutes late and there's going to be traffic and you suddenly go from walking briskly to black to waking and wanting to claw for the covers that aren't there because it's too cold for comfort and you're already two hours late and fuck traffic, what you really need is a warm cup of tea with a splash of something stronger because if your head is going to pound like that, you might as well give it a good reason to do so.
give me a ticket to anywhere and i'll be more than happy to take it and put it in a box beneath my bed so i can dream and wonder of what-ifs and maybes that i let slip between my fingertips. i'll never remember about that box, i tell you, and you may not believe me but that's probably because i'll lie if i
You have a way of doing this to me.Dear A,You have a way of doing this to me. by dietcocaine
It's funny how all it takes is three words from you to spin my world around on its axis and send me flying out of orbit. "I miss you" is your favorite line; you tell it again and again, because you know it will always work.
You don't miss me. You miss having someone around that you can manipulate because it boosts your ego. You'll get bored after a while and do something asshole-ish, I'll get mad and maybe do something spiteful (although I'm trying not to be that sort of person anymore), and we won't talk for a year or two until you're bored and I'm lonely. I miss you, too.
I am entirely unapologetic.
(such as it were).